


Let It Grow

by quamquam20



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Kaydel/Rose, Childhood Memories, Christmas Fluff, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Han and Leia Are Happily Married, Inspired by Hallmark Christmas Movies, New Year's Eve, Obligatory Tree Decorating Contest, Outdoor Sex, Overworked Ben Solo, Overworked Rey, Past Child Abandonment, Power Outage, Pulling Out Is Festive, Sharing a Bed, Small Towns Can Be A Lot, Snowed In, Temperature Play, Tobacco use, background finn/poe - Freeform, breakup angst, come tasting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:49:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27992547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quamquam20/pseuds/quamquam20
Summary: The busy city is the complete opposite of Ben's charming hometown of Cringleville, and that's just the way he likes it. But when he returns at Christmas for the first time in years, he'll find some fresh faces. Like the new owner of Cane's Tree Farm...A Hallmark-inspired fic with a few twists.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren
Comments: 244
Kudos: 427





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

Ben Solo isn't tired. He just needs coffee.

Coffee that Mitaka is rushing down the hallway toward his office with, dodging colleagues and swinging doors. Coffee that's from the place around the corner because the stuff in the lobby is unbearable. Through the glass partition wall, Ben squints at the festive red of the cardboard-sleeved paper cup his admin is holding.

Yeah, he needs it. He holds the door open for Mitaka, who passes it to him.

“It's busy out there.” Winded from the trek, he pulls at the neatly knotted scarf around his neck.

Ben hums in agreement, stopper squeaking when he pops it out of the black lid, and he's so ready for that first brain-sparking sip.

He stops, cup just beneath his nose.

“Is this peppermint?”

Mitaka's mouth falls open. “It shouldn't be.” He checks the order slip stickered to the side. “Oh shit. I'll fix it.” He's already buttoning his coat.

“It's fine.”

“No, I know you hate it. I'll go back. Sorry.” Mitaka takes the cup again and checks his watch. “Your uhhh, your 2:30 canceled. Rescheduled for the second week of January.”

Ben sucks a steadying breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. They need feedback on the project to continue. This is the part of the year when efficiency starts to break down and he'll be the only one left in the office, trying to mop up everybody's mess at the last minute while they're gnawing on cookies three states away, not even thinking about work.

“That's too long. I'll send it in an email.”

“They're out until the sixth.”

Ben drops into his high-backed leather desk chair. “Great. I'll just fuck myself then, I guess.”

“While you do that, I'll get the coffee.”

“Thanks.” He swivels to his computer and hitches the chair closer. Five new emails.

Mitaka doesn't leave. “Um, your phone's ringing.”

It's vibrating against his desk, face down. Ben clicks the first email and starts on a reply. “I know.”

“Okay, sorry.”

It's only when he's gone, elevator doors closing behind him, that Ben flips his phone over to check it. Missed call and voicemail from his father. He doesn't have to guess what it's about, but he listens anyway as he rolls up his sleeves.

“I'm calling on behalf of your mother.” His dad's dry drawl makes him smile. Sometimes it feels like they're the only ones in on a joke. “Call her back, not me. Love you.”

Might as well do it now, before the notifications get overwhelming. He paces in front of the window, steps muffled by the low-pile gray carpet.

She picks up on the second ring.

“What a nice surprise!”

He can hear Han laughing in the background and just knows he's slouched in his favorite sagging armchair.

“Uh huh.”

True to form, she doesn't waste a second. “Christmas is coming up, in case you hadn't noticed.”

“It's hard not to.” Even here.

She drops the sarcasm, suddenly somber. “It's been three years, Ben. Come home.”

“I can't. I've got projects—” His office looks out onto the river, a flowing interruption that slices through the dense pack of skyscrapers.

“You're at work, aren't you?”

He rakes his fingers through his hair. “Mom, it's 1:47 on a Tuesday afternoon. Where else would I be?”

“And when's the last time you relaxed?”

Ben doesn't answer. Because he can't remember.

“Come home.” She says it with more force this time, words enunciated like she's poking him in the chest as punctuation.

He technically still has a few days to put in for vacation time. He's got plenty saved up and no one's going to be around anyway, so all he would really be missing is frustration and automated out-of-office messages.

Besides, when she gives an order like that, there's no arguing.

* * *

“Will you be back before the New Year's party?” Hux leans against the wall in a stiff attempt at casualness. It's not convincing, especially when it's paired with prying questions.

“No.”

He will. He just hates going. His coworkers are sloppy drunks, and somehow the conversation gets even more unbearable than when they corner him on his way out the door. Ben jangles his keys in his pocket impatiently.

Hux lowers his voice, even though nobody's around. “I wouldn't keep dodging these parties if I were you.”

The implication's clear: there are promotions coming up any day, but it'll never be him if he refuses to hold a glass of scotch and nod for three hours. Ben checks the time on his phone conspicuously. His feet fucking ache in these new shoes that creak and pinch after eleven hours, and a migraine's starting to squeeze behind his eyes.

“I've got to go. Good luck on that presentation Thursday.”

“Thank you. Enjoy your time off.” Hux's eyes flash with predatory delight. “I'm sure it will be _well_ worth it. Happy Holidays.”

“Yeah. You too.”

The night is bitterly cold, with arctic gusts of wind and the indescribable dirtiness of the city in winter. It seems to cling to the concrete and glass and discarded papers.

He doesn't want to be the head of the department. Doesn't need the money. He's barely got any time as it is. A full night of sleep is a weekend reward, unless he gets a call from the Beijing office. Then it's never. Breakfast is a slurry of protein powder, shaken as he leaves the gym and the wire ball whisk inside sounds like work. On a good day, he'll have a chance to rinse out the bottle before the meetings and interruptions pile up. Lunch is at his desk. Dinner is from takeout containers he crushes down to fit into his trash can. Sex is a distant memory.

_Overworked._

The word sneaks up on him as he bumps open the door to his dark, empty apartment. Only the lights of the city below sparkle through the windows.

_No, this is normal. Everyone's tired._

In his pocket, his phone buzzes. An email, packed with things to add to his list when he returns.

He slides it onto the kitchen island and goes to take a long shower.

* * *

“In two hundred feet, turn left,” the robotic voice announces as he swerves to avoid a pothole that's been there for a decade.

“Yeah, I fucking know.” He taps blindly at the navigation to silence it.

There was a dusting of snow last night, and it frosts the trees and gathers in the low spots on the winding road. The familiar painted mailbox juts from a clump of boxwood shrubs, and Ben blows out a breath as he grips the steering wheel.

There's still time to turn around and act lost, but then his mother is waving from the front porch and he's an asshole but not _that_ big of an asshole.

In the driveway, Leia doesn't even let him turn off the car before she's tapping at the door handle. Ben locks it and grins out at her. If the fuzzy red robe is any indication, she just woke up, but her long gray hair is in a neat braid that falls over one shoulder. She slaps her palm against the car window.

“I don't care how much it cost, I'll break it.” Her voice is muffled, but the seriousness gets through.

He laughs and unlocks the door. To her credit, Leia lets him unfold himself from the driver's seat before she attacks him with a hug that's only ever gotten up to his chest since sophomore year of high school. Her fleece-lined slippers have snow on the toes and she sniffles into his black cable-knit sweater.

“Hey, Mom.” The hug is swaying and gently twisting and long-awaited. Too long, really. Years slipped by while he was working. The cold air stings his eyes.

She breaks the hug first and turns away to wipe her cheek with a sleeve of her robe. “Get your stuff. I'm freezing.”

The two dogs finally manage to push open the front door and scamper down the steps with varying degrees of success, ignoring Leia as she heads back inside. Artie's short legs mean he hesitates before each tiny leap to the next tread. Pio bounds ahead, excited enough for quivering, high-pitched whines, but well-trained enough to not jump up onto Ben while he gets his luggage from the trunk. He just sits and watches as Ben slings the leather strap over his shoulder.

When Ben walks past, Pio's silky golden ears flatten as he leans in to get petted, tail thumping against the driveway.

“Good dog.” Ben doesn't even know the last time he touched an animal and Pio is practically drooling at the attention, tongue lolling happily.

Artie has finally made it to the sidewalk and he scampers over, only to be scooped up as soon as he gets to Ben. He licks frantically, wetting Ben's ear and chewing on his hair.

“Alright. Missed you too.”

From the outside, the house is unchanged. With the exception of the detached garage, it's almost aggressively symmetrical, with a porch that spans the full length of the front. In the day, the lights strung up along the eaves are just neat wires that promise the same nighttime brightness that use to keep him awake until he got blackout curtains for his bedroom. The ribbon-wrapped spruce wreath scratches against the heavy wooden door when Ben swings it shut behind him. He plops Artie down.

“Hey! Wet paws!” The dogs obediently saunter over to an old towel bunched on the tile floor to wait for Leia to dab at their icy feet. Ben gives his shoes an extra shuffle on the vibrant green and red doormat before he takes them off, just to be safe.

When she's done drying between the dogs' toes, Artie immediately zooms off after Pio to run ecstatic circles around the living room coffee table. Cinnamon and vanilla waft from the kitchen, and somehow Ben forgot how intensely his parents decorate for Christmas. Every flat surface is transformed into vignettes of fake snow, antique mercury glass ornaments, and countless permutations of Santa. Garland spirals around the banister, ending in a massive velvet bow. The tree is the focal point of the living room, taller than it has any reason to be and topped with a crystal-studded star.

“Looks good.”

Leia rearranges a candy dish on the entryway table. “It's not done.”

“What could possibly be left?” Knobbly reindeer made out of twigs stand in the corner, and there's no reasonable place to put anything else.

She purses her lips like she's trying to hold back a smile.

“I need a tree.”

“Well, you're in luck.” He sweeps an open hand at the color-coordinated monstrosity behind them. “I found one.”

“That's the formal tree. I want a family tree.”

“What? Mom, who's even coming over?”

She picks a piece of lint off of her sweater, a measured impersonation of demure, and her eyes are glittering wickedly.

“What are you planning? I don't want a thing here, please.”

Ben trails her into the kitchen, following the promising gurgle of the coffee maker.

“There's no thing here. Your father and I and your uncles are going to Ami's on Friday for her party. We didn't know you were coming,” she adds apologetically as she pours him a steaming mug of coffee. “I already RSVP'd. But I need a second tree.”

“Fine.” Christmas trees are sacrosanct in Cringleville and if she wants two, it will happen. Ben lifts the lid on the perpetually full jar of biscotti and picks one without looking. “Is Cane's Tree Farm still around?”

“New management.” Leia adds a matching splash of light cream to both of their mugs. “Take the truck.”

“Absolutely not.” It's a rattling piece of junk. “Does it even have airbags?”

“Of course it does.” But she really doesn't look sure about that. “Your father is out in the garage. Ask him.”

* * *

The rich tang of motor oil and engine grease is as much a part of his memory of home as pine needles and sprinkle-coated sugar cookies. Ben sticks his head into the garage and raps his knuckles on the metal door. Nobody hears him over the blaring, vehemently festive music.

“Hey!” he calls.

An MGB Roadster he doesn't recognize—a '67 if he had to guess—is on the lift, hovering above a man that's almost as big as the car. Ben knows this even though he can only see a bundle of long brown hair tied at the top of a head before the mechanic's creeper rolls out. His thick beard is streaked with grey now.

He used to dip, and he still doesn't quite look like himself without the bulge of a packed lip. He's switched to an old-fashioned curved pipe and it's clamped between his teeth as he wipes off his dark-smudged hands. When he takes a practiced pull, the bowl of it glows blue. The plume that billows out is dense and white and smells exactly like gingerbread.

“Is that a _vape_ pipe?”

He shrugs a shoulder and he's still the only person Ben has ever spoken to that's taller than him. It's weirdly comforting to be dragged into a surrounding hug by a burly, hairy, taciturn man that's taller and stronger than him and practically a second father. Ben only grimaces a little when he ruffles his hair affectionately.

“Missed you.”

“Yeah, missed you too, Uncle Chew.”

Dip, not chew. But the high school nickname stuck and by the time Ben was born, nobody could even remember his real name. And he's not technically an uncle, but it always felt right to call him that. Same with Lando.

“Han!” Uncle Chew throws his head back to shout over the bombastic cover of Carol of the Bells.

Ben sees him now, digging through something at the workbench.

“What? I'm in the middle of—” Han turns around and stops, hand buried in a tub of mismatched bolts. A crooked, genuine grin spreads across his face. “Hey, kid.”

“Hey, Dad.”

Han dusts his grit-covered hands off on his jeans, and their hug is the back-slapping kind that almost hurts but it keeps them both there for an extra moment.

“How was the drive?”

Always. Always the first question. And it took Ben a while to figure out that he doesn't mean safety or traffic or anything like that. He means the experience of driving: the grip of the road beneath the tires and the smooth spin of the steering wheel.

“Good.”

“Got a new one, huh?” Whatever else his dad thinks of his life and his choices, he approves of the cars.

“In March.”

“I'd like to take a peek at it sometime. If you don't mind.”

They'll take it for a spin later, and the second they're out of view of the neighbors, Han will ask to drive. They'll get out and swap seats. Han will ask about the transmission while he takes corners way too fast, and Ben will dig his fingers into the armrest, even though he does the exact same thing when he's behind the wheel.

“Not at all.” He remembers why he's out here holding his keys. “I have to go to Cane's first.”

Han's eyes flick over to Uncle Chew, so fast that Ben almost misses it. “Want the truck?”

“Not really.”

It's in the first bay, rusted fender and popped hood. Full of memories. Han and Ben consider it for a few seconds.

“Yeah, probably not,” Han admits. “We've been working on it but... ya know.”

“Need anything while I'm out?” Ben checks the pocket of his coat to make sure his wallet's still there.

“Nah.”

“Peppermint bark,” Uncle Chew interjects.

“You and that damn peppermint bark! You had three boxes last week.”

“Two and a half.”

Han holds his hand up defensively. “Hey, it's good stuff. I only had a little.”

“Gonna keep it on the top shelf.”

“I have a stepladder, you know.”

Their bickering fades as Ben heads to his car.

* * *

Cane's Tree Farm hasn't changed much, either. It's busier and cleaner and more heavily decorated. But acres of evergreens still stretch out in rows, bound by unplanted forest, and the large white building that serves as a gift shop still sits just off the road, not far from his parents' house. And the converted vintage trailer that passes out free hot chocolate hasn't gone anywhere. Ben tries to blend into the cluster of passing families excitedly following the signs out to the fields, but he must stick out too much among the puffy coats and pompom-topped hats.

“Sir, would you like some hot cocoa? Sir!”

There's no use in pretending he hasn't heard: he's the only one not clutching a paper cup.

The teenager behind the counter bounces around perkily, and Ben's not sure how the elf hat he's wearing stays in place. “We have a non-dairy option!”

The inside of the trailer is plastered with drawings by the local school kids: wonky trees and blobs of decorations.

If he didn't already know about the change in management, the vegan hot cocoa would tip him off. Old Mr. Cooper was a creature of habit.

“Regular's fine.”

“Candy cane?” A short blonde girl with an even bigger elf hat spins around with a hooked stick already in her hand.

He can only stand peppermint when he's here. At home, his toothpaste has to be different—silver tubes of jasmine or cinnamon or ginger in his sparse bathroom. Even spearmint is better.

But this is chocolate, and they're both beaming at him expectantly.

“Sure, why not.”

It's delicious and creamy, and Ben drops a few folded dollars into their tip jar. He walks off just as the way they're elbowing each other gets flirty.

Seven to eight feet. Leia was adamant about the height. He follows the painted signs.

A familiar face is gliding between rows of trees, leading a large family. Finn gives him a curt and unsmiling nod of recognition, and it's more than he expected. He returns it. They were a few years apart in school, acquaintances but hardly friends. Of course, since Ben refused to follow in his uncle's footsteps and moved away, he's lost a lot of the amicable ease he had with the people who live in town.

The more he walks, the quieter it gets and the more he likes it. The snow still dusts the ground where it's shaded by trees, but the rest is melting in the early afternoon sun. Birdsong takes over where distant screaming kids once were. It's so much of what he misses in the city, if he's honest with himself: uninterrupted sky, air without the sharpness of exhaust.

Just ahead, branches rustle. Maybe a squirrel, but then it's too vigorous and intentional to be anything but a person.

“Jim, I fucking found it. I _knew_ it was flagged. The Andersons do this every year, I swear.”

A mass of brown fabric wriggles out of the tree, holding a red strip of flagging tape aloft. Her boots are caked with mud, and her insulated Carhartt jacket has been worn so hard, it's fraying at the cuffs. Big hazel eyes peek out from under a beanie, and her nose is bright pink and running. Flushed from working hard in the cold, she looks like she's been building snow day forts.

“You're not Jim.”

“No.”

She sniffs hard before she produces a crumpled tissue from her pocket and wipes her nose.

“This row isn't for sale,” she says.

“Okay.”

She's beautiful. Like, try-not-to-stare beautiful. Ben does his best, but checking for a name tag has its own issues and she seems on-edge already. He settles for inspecting the closest tree.

“Is no one helping you?”

“No... I just was looking around.”

“Well, we're cutting down trees so be careful when you hear a chainsaw.”

“I usually am.”

She gives him a once-over and he feels like he's shrinking under her assessment. It's the watch sticking out from under the sleeve of his coat, or the black cashmere scarf around his neck. Or maybe the shoes. He tried to tone it all down, but clearly anything short of flannel shirts and jeans won't cut it as camouflage here.

“From out of town?”

He hates this part. When everyone new has to be analyzed. And who the fuck is she?

“Yeah. But so are you.”

She pulls a battered stainless steel travel mug from the gap between two trees and takes a long drink. Coffee with eggnog creamer drifts over and he ignores the way she licks off an errant drop from the lid when she's done.

“How do you know that?”

Because he was born here. But that's none of her business. “Well, you swore openly, have an accent, and didn't immediately stop what you were doing to coddle me.”

She's retying the flagging tape to an outer branch.

“Do you want to be coddled?”

He grins and it usually gets him what he asks for, but it doesn't even seem to register. “By you? A little.”

“I'm busy, so find someone else.”

It's dismissive and harsh, and so much more comfortable than the saccharine politeness that he gets everywhere else here. He wants more.

“Why are you busy?”

Her glare is barely tempered. “It's a Christmas tree farm in Cringleville in December. It's busier every year. Just a flood of assholes from the city—”

He gives his hot chocolate a stir with the candy cane, and when he steadily meets her wide eyes again, she's blushing. But she doesn't apologize and her need to vent must be overwhelming, because she's not even close to done.

“And this _stupid_ tree decorating contest.”

Ben keeps his face carefully neutral. Anything to keep her talking so he can imagine it in his ear. It _is_ a stupid contest, though. She's right about that. Her accent is faded but melodic and he doesn't want to be weird about it, but it makes him feel like he took another scalding sip of hot cocoa.

“...and each team votes for someone to decorate the team tree. It's a whole thing. And guess who they picked this year?”

“You.”

She throws her hands into the air. “Can you believe it? Like I don't have enough shit to do.”

It's a popularity contest and typically rigged. Money changes hands, old scores from years past are settled. All in the holiday spirit, of course. But she genuinely doesn't seem to want it, so maybe she won outright. It would be rare, but not unheard of.

“Anyway. You probably have some calls to circle back to going forward or a big synergy team-building deal to close loudly while your family finds a tree. At least flag down an employee to distract your kid.” She picks at a frozen smear of sap on her jacket.

“It's just me. And I closed on the big synergy team-building deal last week. The cell service out here sucks anyway.”

Something like a smile plays at the corner of her lips before she gives up on the sap and swishes a hand at the perfect trees surrounding them. “If you see one you like, take the numbered tag and tell someone with a green hat which car is yours. Pay in the store. Unless there’s one right here that you want.”

“Uh.” His eyes land on the closest one that's not flagged with red. “That one.”

“Noble fir? Nice choice.” She rips off the tag and hands it to him. She's pulling on gloves, but he wants to touch her. “Which car?”

 _Ah, fuck._ The truck would've made this less awkward. Maybe someone else will bring the tree to the parking lot. Because if she sees his car, it'll just cement the whole asshole-from-the-city thing, and he could at least have been interesting with a beat-up old truck.

“The black sedan. Second row, fourth space from the right. No roof rack.” He drains his hot chocolate, and a ring of dark sludge sits in the bottom of the paper cup.

“Drill or screw?”

He chokes.

“The tree stand,” she clarifies.

“Drill.”

Before Ben can recover, she's pulling on a vibrant safety helmet and flipping the visor down. She gives him a thumbs up and pops her earmuffs into place.

She waits until he's out of range before the chainsaw is a warbling whine, and he won't be the guy who turns around to stare at a woman trying to do her job, but it's so tempting. She's practically iced with competence. If he were a grosser person, he'd duck into the bathroom and do something about the way he's imagining her tits bouncing underneath all those layers as she stomps around in mud-thick boots outside. And how she probably gets a little sweaty when she's hauling trees around, and how she peels everything off when she gets home...

He's rubbing the tag she gave him.

Right. He has to pay. He's not here to get off. But later, for sure. Right now he has to focus.

The more Ben looks around the place, the more differences he notices. Fresh coats of paint, squeaky clean windows, and gravel that hasn't been kicked all over the paths. Solar panels on the south-facing slope of the store's roof.

The store itself is packed. They're piping in the obligatory Christmas music, but it's Ella Fitzgerald, so it sounds like velvet and a secluded corner table in a bar he'll go back to. Clear cellophane bags of salt-flecked caramels and boxes of glossy ribbon candy pile and tumble artfully to cover crowded shelves. This place used to smell like a cold, tractor-filled barn, but now it's spruce and sun-warmed cedar, innately familiar but fresh. Ben browses racks of delicate ornaments, perpetually spun by grubby-handed kids who only stop when he holds the display steady and, somehow, nothing breaks. They dart out around his feet like a school of tiny fish in shallow water.

One ornament is a truck that looks exactly like his dad's, with a bristly Christmas tree attached to the roof and the bed full of presents. And a glitter-dusted cinnamon bun ornament for his mom. He has to get gifts for the dogs, too. House rules. And rather than it all being the overwhelming list of obligations he imagined, it's much closer to fun than he'd like to admit, and soon he needs a basket to hold it all.

The boxes of peppermint bark are stacked into a tower. Ben grabs one from the top and turns it over.

Nineteen dollars. Ben's eyebrows fly up, but he drops three boxes into his basket.

The old toy train he used to love still puffs and clinks around the store, high up on a shelf. His father would lift him up for a better look until Ben got too heavy. But now he's tall enough to stretch up and swipe his finger along the shelf next to the tracks to finally find out if they ever dust it.

Whatever was the case, they do now and he can stop the childhood habit of imagining the tiny wheels getting caught in a tuft of dust.

The cashier at the register is bubbly, and her earrings are tiny bells that jingle when she turns her head. “Find everything alright, sir?”

Her name tag says “Sam” and has bits of fake holly hot glued to the corners.

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “Yeah, it was fine.” He watches her efficiently wrap each ornament in brown paper, sealing the loose corner with a candy cane-patterned piece of tape. The line is stretching longer behind him. “You really don't have to do that. I live around the corner.”

Somehow, even Sam's shrug is cheery. “Store policy. My boss gets sad when they break. Plus, they're so cute, aren't they?”

“I guess so.” It just occurred to him that he has no clue who's in charge now that Mr. Cooper is gone. “Who's your boss?”

Sam leans to look out through the window, searching the parking lot. Locating someone, she points and her manicured nails glitter under the twinkling string lights. “Rey. She's the owner.”

Ben cranes his neck to follow her finger and almost coughs. The beige beanie is bobbing beside his car as she paces.

“Ah.”

“Your total is $348.59.”

“Holy fuck,” he breathes as he looks back over his purchases. Okay, maybe that makes sense. He did go hard on the artisan cookies. But holy fuck. He passes his card to her without further comment and ignores the disapproving look from the middle-aged woman next to him in line. Cane's used to be cash-only but she doesn't bat an eye at his thick metal card, so things have definitely modernized.

“Aaaaaand if you could just sign there, please,” Sam says with the sing-song of repetition as she sets a reindeer-topped pen beside the receipt and taps the tree tag with a stamp to mark it paid.

Ben scrawls his name messily, eyes darting up to the window again. He crams a few crisp bills into the tip bucket without looking at them. He's already trying to brace himself as he snaps his wallet shut and slides the tree tag from the counter.

“Thank you so much, sir. Happy Holidays!”

“You too.”

The sunshine is almost enough to warm the crisp air as he hurries out to the parking lot.

She doesn't comment on his car, and he's grateful for it. The tree’s been trimmed, drilled, and wrapped, the loose needles shaken out of it. It's a lot of work, and she's probably got a million better things to be doing right now.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” He tries to grab the coil of jute rope dangling from her grasp. “I can do this myself.”

She snatches her hand away. “I'd like it to stay on your car. I don't need the chief of police down here asking why one of my trees is blocking the road.”

“I know how to tie down a tree.”

People are starting to look over at them.

Rey lowers her voice to a hiss. “Lots of practice in the city?”

“More practice than you.” He could savor the rage that's pinching her face and making her fists ball up around the rope, but she seems like the kind of person who might've used a garrote before and he won't push his luck. So he unlocks his car and swings the doors open wide. “Do you want to throw or pass?”

In answer, she flings a tangle of rope over the tree with so much force that it smacks him in the face.

“Guess I'll do the passing,” he says.

When he ducks his head down into the back seat, Rey is already there, reaching out impatiently for his end of the rope.

“I'm sorry,” Ben says, swinging it to her. “I just know you're busy.”

She ignores that, tying a practiced knot and avoiding his eyes. After testing it with a brutal tug, she closes the door firmly on her side. When she tosses over the end of the second rope, there's less anger behind it.

“Like you care. You probably think this is all ridiculous.”

She's got a knee on the driver's seat and Ben has the strongest urge to ask her to sit in his car with him. This time, their hands brush when he passes the rope.

“I don't. I think it's stressing you out. Here—” His business cards are in his work bag, on the floor of his apartment entryway but he finds a pen in the center console. He flips over the tree tag and scrawls his number as she finishes tying. “Give me a call if you want help with the contest. Or even to talk.”

Rey's eyes are narrowed, but she takes the tag.

Ben shuts the passenger side door and walks around the car, and she's definitely looking at him with something close to curiosity. She's opening her mouth to say something when—

“Rey!” Someone hurries through the parking lot, holding a phone out to her. “Call for you. Says they need an invoice.”

She crams the tag into her pocket. “Be right there.”

He holds out a tip, but she shakes her head. She grabs the phone and walks away without a backward glance.

And Ben does let himself look a little, this time.

* * *

“How was it?”

Leia is curled up on the sofa with the dogs and a book. The fireplace crackles, and she’s got her favorite quilted blanket draped over her lap.

“It was... weird.”

She turns the page with a distracted hum. “The stand is already set up.”

But as he carries the netted tree through the hallway, Ben thinks he sees her smile.


	2. Chapter 2

Downtown Cringleville is postcard-quaint and, for Ben, it elicits a strange blend of claustrophobia and comfort, like the entire world has shrunk to fit here and the things he needs are all within reach. It's not true—there isn't even a decent pizza place—but it feels like it could be, if he adjusted his expectations and didn't know what he was missing.

Tonight, the trees lining Main Street are twinkling, lights spiraling up their trunks to wrap around bare branches that stretch out over busy sidewalks. The moon is a fuzzed glow behind clouds.

This was just supposed to be dinner with his parents, but then there's the obligatory bundled-up nighttime stroll afterwards to peek in shop windows and reminisce. He's been away for long enough that they're stopped by his parents' excited friends, who pull him into hugs and fluff his hair and ask if he's found anyone yet.

“He's focused on his career.” Leia saves him from answering, time and again. She says it proudly, and with enough firmness that they know it's the end of that particular line of questioning. Deftly, she'll swing the conversation around to ask about _their_ kids, almost invariably married to someone they dated in high school or college, happy with kids and single-family homes and dogs of their own.

Ben scans his surroundings. To his left, the 'Twas the Night Bookstore is hosting a wine tasting party, and people in corduroy jackets with leather patches on the elbows mill around tables of breadsticks and cheese cubes and bestsellers before wandering deeper between the shelves. Next door, the florist's display is packed with poinsettias, little boxwood Christmas trees, and ostentatious bouquets of red and white flowers with sprigs of holly nestled in the gaps. Even the mailbox in front of the post office has a wreath hanging from the side. He knows every brick-paved alley and side street, and could get back to their car with his eyes closed. It grows more tempting by the second.

Up ahead, someone across the street waves excitedly to his mother and starts to cross over, crinkling a bag from the Fuzzy Stockings Yarn Shop. To avoid another hug and more nosy questions, Ben doubles back, letting crowds of shoppers fill in the distance. He has his phone with him, anyway, and his parents learned long ago that he's the type to hide in his room an hour into a party. They'll know exactly what happened.

He's turning up the volume on his phone so he'll be able to hear it over the carolers and jingling bells when the door of the bakery swings open. Someone collides with him, hard, and he catches them before they can tumble into the icy puddle beyond the curb.

“Sorry!” They are small and strong and smell like raspberry jam. “I'm so sorry.”

Ben knows that voice; it's been replaying in his head for two days.

“Rey?”

She disentangles herself and takes a quick step backward, holding her arms out. “I didn't know it was you.” There's a small white paper bag clutched in one of her mittened hands, and the smear inside tells him that whatever she just bought didn't survive. “I'm not following you, I promise.”

Not that he would mind.

“Small town,” he allows.

She's wearing a cream-colored coat the comes down almost to her knees, and a red hat with flaps that cover her ears. Her eyelids glitter subtly, and if he's noticed that, he's already staring.

Ben clears his throat and points to the bag. “I'll get you some new ones.”

“No, it's my fault. I'll just...” She glances around before she opens the bag to inspect the damage. “I was going to call you.”

“Were you?” He can't hide the surprise in it, or stop the warm feeling that follows.

“I need your help with the contest.” Rey pulls her mitten off with her teeth and tucks it under her arm before fishing out a fragment of a cookie.

Ben watches her crunch and chew, ignoring a passing pack of carolers. “Are those the almond and raspberry ones?”

“Yeah.” She holds the bag out to him and he carefully picks out a buttery, crumb-covered chunk with a dab of jam. It's a nostalgic taste: the bakery has been making them for years.

“Where do you want to meet?”

“Somewhere private,” she says with her mouth full. “Last year, there were stolen plans and they disqualified the winner. I don't want that.”

He fights to stop himself from grinning. “Sure. How about I just give you my address? It's close to the farm.”

Rey's nodding and brushing her fingers off before she pulls out her phone to make a note.

“3965 Evergreen Road. If you turn left out of Cane's parking lot, it's just past the...”

He trails off. All the color has drained from her face, and she hasn't typed anything.

“Is that where your family lives?”

“Yes. Is that okay? They won't mind.”

And, like he imagined it, she's back to business, opening up her calendar and checking her schedule. “Yeah. I just didn't know you had family here. What day?”

She's probably heard enough about him to regret taking him up on his offer.

“Does Friday work?” He asks carefully, already prepared for the rejection.

Instead, she looks up at him, all dark lashes. Her lips part and he knows that, right now, her mouth tastes just like his.

“I can be there at five.”

* * *

They were supposed to be gone by now.

His parents are still rushing around. Chew's warming up the car outside, the exhaust drifting over the asphalt in dense puffs. And Uncle Lando's still relaxing in the family room, arm draped over the back of the sofa while he watches a smoothly narrated nature documentary, working on a pre-party glass of something poured from a decanter in the liquor cabinet.

On the other side of the sofa, Ben bounces his leg impatiently as a flock of migratory birds fills the screen. He checks the time again.

Lando gives him a slow, sidelong glance. “You wanna talk about it?”

“There's nothing to talk about.”

“Sure there is.” He lowers his voice conspiratorially. “You could tell me about the date that's got you so nervous, for starters.”

Ben wonders what tipped him off. The late afternoon shower and shave, the clean shirt. Or just Lando's sixth sense. “It's not a date.”

Lando grins into his glass, eyebrow raised. “Oh, it's one of _those_.”

“No, I just—”

 _Just what?_ Want to fuck her but also don't want her to know that? Need to be supportive but want to make her forget all of this town's bullshit?

Ben scrubs his fingers through his hair, elbows braced on his knees.

“Listen,” Lando says, “just relax. Put your phone away and talk to them. It's not complicated.”

He's right. More than that: he knows he's right.

“Ben, can you help me with this?” Leia calls from the living room.

He hauls himself to his feet. “Thanks for the advice.”

“Anytime,” Lando says, loose and easy, and Ben would give anything for a single drop of his confidence.

In the living room, his mother is struggling with something at the nape of her neck. “This thing is the worst. Han's busy getting the dogs ready or I'd ask him.”

Ben takes the thin gold strand from her. Her hair is swept up and pinned into a neat gather. His short-clipped thumbnail barely notches into the tiny closure. “The dogs are going?”

“Of course they are.” Like it's an offensive question.

His text notification sound is a sharp ding, and he'll probably stop breathing if he checks it. He blurts out the warning. “Um, someone's coming over.”

“That's wonderful. Don't break anything.” It's all she's ever said when he invited someone over and, for a second, Ben can't remember how old he is.

The clasp catches and he clicks it into place before patting her shoulders to let her know it's done. She straightens the front of her red dress and centers the emerald pendant.

“Thank you.” Suddenly distracted, Leia hurries back into the kitchen, remembering something.

Amidst the chaos, there's a quiet knock at the door and his stomach clenches. If everyone had left, this would be close to painless. He'd only have to handle the few moments of newness, and there wouldn't be any witnesses when he gawks at her like he can't remember how to speak.

He grips the door knob harder than he needs to, heart racing, and wrenches it open.

She's here right from work, her hair flattened from being under a hat. The Carhartt's been swapped for her longer coat, and she smells like outside. No makeup that he can notice. Just her usual lip balm.

Not a date. Like he said.

“Hi.”

She smiles. “Hi.”

“Sorry, there's a lot going on right now. They're just leaving for a party. I should have texted you.”

Rey wipes off her shoes and unties one. They're her steel-toed work boots, scraped clean before she got here. “It's fine. I don't mind.”

Leia returns holding a foiled-covered platter.

“Hello, dear.” She gives Rey an air kiss to avoid smudging her own makeup. Like this is the entirely unremarkable millionth time Rey's been over and, for all he knows, it is. It makes sense, of course, that they would know each other, but that doesn’t make it any less weird to watch.

Ben knows his mouth is hanging open in disbelief, and it's only when Leia shoots him a disapproving look that he manages to snap it shut again.

“Can I help you carry something?” Rey asks, assessing the armload of things Leia is holding.

“Oh, that would be so helpful.” She passes two overloaded canvas tote bags full of wrapped presents to Rey. “It's out in the driveway.”

Rey points her foot at Ben. “Could you just stuff the laces back in?”

Still reeling, Ben crouches to tuck the strings behind the tongue of her boot. This is already one of the most surreal nights of his life, and the silence that's left behind after Rey goes out to the car with his mom doesn't help. Thankfully, it's short-lived.

Artie comes barreling out of the back hallway, a patterned dog sweater flapping wildly around his hind legs and a pair of felt reindeer antlers knocked askew on his head.

“I tried,” Han rumbles. Pio is long-suffering but in better shape, following stoically at Han's heel, his antlers and sweater primly in place.

“Is it an ugly sweater party for dogs?”

“More or less.” Han flips open the lid of a container on the hall table and pops something small and covered in melted brie into his mouth. “Lots of people food, though. And drinks.”

“Sounds about right.” Ben is jittery and hopes his dad isn't as perceptive as Lando. He keeps talking, just in case. “How do the dogs handle it?”

“They get along with Ami's dog and stay out of trouble. For the most part.” He looks down at Pio and gives him a scratch behind the ear. “Well, you do.”

The front door swings open, bringing a blast of frigid air, and Artie is there in an instant to jump up onto Rey.

“Hey!” Leia snaps her fingers. “Sit.”

Artie plunks down on Rey's foot, looking embarrassed.

“Haven't seen you in a while.” It's her dog voice, Ben realizes—a little higher pitched, a lot slower. Full of sweetness. Artie stares up at her adoringly as she straightens his antlers. “I've been working so much.”

“It's that time of year,” Han says as he walks over. He gives Rey one of his quick side hugs that seem distant until you find out that he only hugs nine people on the entire planet. Ben keeps his jaw firmly closed. “How've you been holding up?”

“Pretty well. Busiest Christmas yet. What's new with the cars?”

 _There_ it is. That's what's going on. A prickle of jealousy sets in, thinking of her sitting on the swiveling, paint-splattered bar stool in the corner of the garage, watching and learning. It's been his chair his whole life.

“We found an intake manifold for the Pontiac, so we've been working on that one.”

“Chew told me,” Rey says, beaming. “That's great.”

“Yeah, we're excited,” Han says in his monotone.

An empty glass clinks against the kitchen counter, and Lando emerges from the kitchen to join them by the door.

“Rey.” He says it like she's an unexpected sonata in a subway station.

A distinct whiff of bourbon follows him, but nothing he drinks ever makes him smell sloppy. It just mixes with his hint of cologne and leaves him smelling like a country club or, at most, an upscale speakeasy.

Lando flashes her that smile that's gotten him into more trouble than Ben will ever know about. And Rey grins back, charmed, and Ben wonders when any of this even happened.

“Does everyone know her except for me?” he asks, unable to keep the exasperation out of his voice.

“Well, you haven't been here,” Leia says brusquely, searching the entryway for anything else she's forgotten to load into the car.

Rey is shrugging out of her coat, revealing a gray sweater. At Leia's words, she stops to glance over at Ben.

“Busy.” He feels his face heating.

“Well, at least you two have that in common,” Han says, almost to himself.

Rey finds an empty hook for her coat. “I'm here to work on the Team 7 tree, actually.” Seeming to realize what she's said, she backpedals. “He's not helping me design it,” Rey clarifies quickly. “We're just doing a cost estimate. On materials.”

Han prods the inside of his cheek with his tongue critically, eyes narrowing as they dart between her and Ben. “Uh-huh.”

Leia elbows him.

“That's _perfect_ ,” she says diplomatically. She starts to herd Han and Lando and the dogs to the exit. “Make yourselves at home. There are cookies and appetizers that wouldn't fit on the trays, so please eat them. We'll be back late.”

Han turns to Ben and nods at where the container sat on the table. “Except for those ones.”

“I won't touch the brie. Call me if you need to get picked up,” Ben reminds them as they shuffle out the door. “Don't eggnog and drive.”

And with another final gust of the frosty night outside, he's alone with Rey.

The awkwardness comes anyway, in the seconds that feel like minutes. She toes off her boots before searching through a messenger bag he hadn't noticed. He was probably too busy trying to figure out what her hair means.

“Sorry about that,” he says.

Rey walks past him with a clipboard and a pen, making a beeline for the dining room table.

“Don't be. I'm glad I got to see them.” It's earnest, but she's back to that terseness that she gets when they're really alone, and he misses the way she was.

The cherrywood table stretches the length of the room, ornate legs arching out from the corners, and a brocade runner slashes down the center of it. Rey chooses a seat that's well-lit by the brass chandelier, and when she pulls the chair out, the feet have left square dents in the patterned rug beneath.

Ben sees it now as she sits down heavily: she's tired. It rings her eyes and tugs at her shoulders. A complex guilt comes with the realization. Right now, he's the only thing stopping her from relaxing. Or he's why she left work early, before Cane's closed, when there were still too many things to do. And more than any of that, he sees himself in the exhaustion and the way she's pushing herself because there's an end in sight.

“Want some coffee? There's a fresh pot.”

She's unclipping a few sheets of graph paper and a form that's been photocopied into near-illegibility.

“Sure. Thanks. Black is fine.”

In the kitchen, he digs through the fridge. Behind the overflow from a veggie tray are bacon-wrapped dates, and he crams three into his mouth before pouring her coffee.

Rey is counting squares on the graph paper when he comes back. She nods in thanks as Ben sets the Santa mug down in front of her and doesn't seem to notice when he picks the chair across from her to sit in.

“First, I want to clear the air,” he says.

“There's nothing to clear.” Doesn't lift her eyes from the tiny tick marks she's making.

“I think there is.”

Since she's here at all, he's presumably gotten past some kind of barrier she keeps around herself, but he's nowhere near the middle yet. He doesn't mind taking his time. And whatever she's heard about him hasn't been enough to scare her off.

“Go ahead, then.” Rey drops the pen and sits back in her chair, lips pressed together.

“I'm sorry I was a dick to you when we met.”

She crosses her arms over her chest. “I was a dick first.”

True, probably. He can't remember. He was too busy getting drunk on her voice.

She won't like this next part, but he has to say something. He softens it with a hint of teasing. “Your prices are really high.”

And there's the flash. But she channels it into snatching the cup of coffee from the table, and it's only when someone is glaring at him over the top of Santa's disembodied head that he realizes that the mug is kind of morbid. She's grinding her teeth and he has to ask himself if he's into making her angry. Because maybe it gets him off, a little.

Rey takes a deep breath and Ben tries not to notice how it lifts her chest under her sweater. “We do landscaping the rest of the year, but most of our profits come in these five weeks.”

And Ben gets it. Everything here is driven by seasonal tourism, but she also has a captive audience with no other options. “Right, but—”

“It's not my fault if you don't know that locals never pay full price.” She takes a long swig and smacks her lips slightly at the astringency. “You paid the asshole tax.”

Ben taps his fingers on the table's polished, lemon-scented wood.

“This is about me leaving?”

In answer, she takes another, more measured sip.

“I was asked to give up my entire life for this town. Everything I wanted to do. Just because of who my family is. I'm not an asshole for turning that down.” He drags his hand over his mouth and this wouldn't be so difficult if she wasn't looking at him like he stole something from her. “It's a great place for two months out of the year, and the rest is just... paperwork and cleanup and preparing for the next Christmas. You know that's not normal.” He traces the floral carving along the side of the table. “The mayor of this town has too much on their plate. Luke has sacrificed a lot for that job.”

Rey snorts at that. “Like what? Free time? A partner? Being able to leave whenever he wants?”

Ben has to hold his lip between his teeth so he won't take the bait.

“There's no reason for it to be one family for generations,” he says finally.

“No, there's not,” Rey agrees. “Jannah's probably going to take over when Luke retires.”

“Jannah at the hardware store?” She was three years behind him in high school, and had been the honors-classes-and-extracurriculars type. She walked down the hallway with a backpack full of books and a big group of friends.

“Part time, now. The rest of the time she's working with Luke.”

The conversation is lighter, unburdened. He likes it more this way.

“She'd be great at it.” Jannah has the backbone and the tact for the job.

“Yeah. And she wants to.” Rey's drawing an oval in the corner of her paper, her calloused knuckles hinging with the movement. He wonders if her hands are cold.

“We should probably get started on this,” Ben says, pushing back from the table and walking around to her. “But how the fuck you can read this?” He picks up the blurry form by the corner and gives it a little shake. She smiles. “Luke did this, didn't he? This is something he would do. This is from the seventies.”

He didn't realize how close he's standing to her. When she's sitting, his hips are at face height, and she's not leaning away. She's looking.

His blood flow immediately redirects.

Ben points his thumb back over his shoulder at the family room, trying to get ahead of the situation before it's too obvious. “Do you want to sit in there? It's more comfortable.”

Rey doesn't hesitate, and when she rises, she's close enough to touch. Instead of testing that, Ben gathers her papers and the clipboard and leads her into the other room.

In minutes, he has pushed aside the cluster of unlit pillar candles and the coffee table is covered with her bulleted lists and official guidelines. There's space between them on the sofa, but they're hunched over the same few sheets and sometimes their knees bump.

She's working on a rough sketch. “The tree is twelve feet tall.”

“Okay, so Chew can lift you to put the star on top.”

“Or you could.” After Rey says it, she becomes very interested in shading the trunk of the tree's outline while Ben tries not to imagine her sitting up on his shoulders, her thighs squeezing around his head. “And I think I want a sun instead.”

“Yeah.” He swallows hard. “Yeah, that would be good.” Now he's going to think about carrying her and getting her on a bed and hooking her legs over his shoulders.

He's not done reading the stapled packet of papers he spreads over his lap, but it can wait. There are more pressing issues and he needs to get himself under control. She didn't want to meet somewhere private so he could pop a series of increasingly serious boners next to her. She needs an objective sounding board, and a quiet place to talk about something with a looming deadline and weird social pressure that's stressing her out.

But it's impossible to not look over at her way too often. His silenced phone has stayed in his pocket the entire time, but if he were going to take it out, and if she wouldn't mind, it would be to take a picture of the way the lights of the tree—the one she tied to his car—make her eyes sparkle.

Ben loses track of time as they work, and he loves it like this. With them feeding ideas back and forth, asking questions, and taking turns with being the rational one and the dreamer. With the caffeine kicking in for her and her tongue fluttering fast over words, and him deciding that being around her feels like sinking into a hot tub. If they’re technically breaking some rules about unapproved collaborations, she doesn’t seem to mind.

He picks at a loose thread on one of the pillows. “This whole thing means a lot to you, doesn't it?”

Rey looks up from the project timeline she's mapping. “Well, the reward is $15,000.”

“ _What_?” He misheard. That's impossible. It was five grand when he left. “Since when?”

“Since some rich old widows decided to turn a fun annual community tradition into a bloodbath.”

“No shit.” Ben presses his fingers to his forehead. “That explains a lot.” The competitiveness and seriousness.

Rey gives him a withering look. “I don't need the money. That's not why I want to win.”

He waits but, for whatever reason, she's dancing around something.

“You just don't want someone to have it.” It's a guess and, based on the way she's looking at him, he really missed the mark.

“No. The animal rescue isn't doing well. They started doing wildlife rehabilitation two years ago and they're stretched too thin. I bring them supplies, but it's not enough.”

“Oh.”

_Asshole from the city._

“Your phone screen is on.” She points to his thigh, and the glow that's seeping through the tight weave of his jeans. It's a welcome way out of the conversational corner he's backed himself into.

He has to straighten his leg and push his hips up slightly to get it out of his pocket, and she watches him struggle.

Four missed calls from his mom, starting more than half an hour ago.

Panic claws at him. He doesn't think, just calls her back.

“Sorry,” he says quickly to Rey as it rings. “Mom?”

Leia is laughing when she answers, and the horrible knot in his stomach instantly loosens.

“Is Rey still there?”

Ben glances over at her as she pretends she can't hear. “Yeah, why?”

Above the din of the party, Leia clears her throat but more repressed laughter and probably some prosecco make her words warble.

“Have you looked outside recently?”

The knot tightens again as he goes over to the closest window. “No. What's going on?”

He pulls back the curtain and is met by fiercely swirling darkness and a wall of white.

“God damn it.”

Rey groans from the sofa.

“I tried calling.” It almost sounds sincere, but it's too cheery.

“Mom—”

“Don't drive. Don't leave.” She's serious. “You or her.”

“Okay.”

Rey is scrolling through her phone, eyes getting wider as she goes.

“Trees are down,” Leia says, “and you might lose power.”

Ben glances over at the unlit fireplace, dark beneath the stockings hanging from the mantle. At least they won't freeze to death. “You're fine there?”

“Oh, we're having a great time.”

“The dogs are okay?”

“They love it. Ami brought in a bowl of snow for them. I'll have to send you the video.”

Ben's mind is racing, but he still manages to smile a bit at the thought of that. “Show me later. Save your battery.”

“Love you. We'll call before we come home tomorrow.”

“Yep. Love you too.”

When he hangs up, Rey is texting.

“I'm sorry,” he says.

“I shouldn't have left this on Do Not Disturb.” Her fingers are flying. “It was supposed to completely miss us.”

“Do you need to go?”

“Ben, there's zero visibility out there.” It's the first time she's said his name and he doesn't care how she learned it or how indignant she sounds. He just wants her to say it again.

“Right. I just didn't know...” He points between them.

“Do you need a chaperone?”

“That depends. Do you have dishonorable intentions?”

“Yes.” Rey gathers the scattered papers and taps the stack sharply against the top of the table before she reclips them. “I intend to eat the brie Han asked us to save.”

Ben recalibrates, but he's still fully ready to stretch out on the sofa and unbutton his jeans for her.

“Technically only I promised. I'll just tell him that rations ran low and you were overcome with hunger.” He plugs his phone into the charger he left dangling from the outlet earlier. “Want to raid the fridge while the lights are still on?”

“Sounds good to me.” He's not imagining the way her gaze lingers.

* * *

Rey's teeth leave grooves in the square of cheesecake she's eating.

“Are you worried about the farm?” The wind is howling now and he has no clue how they didn't notice the clink of snow against the windows.

“It'll be fine. We have a backup generator for the essential stuff. Might lose a few trees, but that's how it goes. Storm damage is covered by insurance anyway.”

She's sitting cross-legged in the kitchen chair, her leggings stretching tight over her knees. It's nice to see her unwind, even if it happens in increments.

“How did you end up in Cringleville?” Ben's working on a heap of cucumber slices so he won't scarf down the entire bowl of artichoke dip.

“Mr. Cooper left Cane's to me in his will.”

“Were you family?” It's like someone else is running his mouth.

Rey dunks a baby carrot into the bowl and manages to balance an incredible amount of dip on the end. “Apparently. Never met him”

Ben can feel the boundary he's approaching but he wants to know so much about her, it's almost a compulsion. “Where are you from?”

“Not here.”

_Wall._

He backs off, letting it stand as they work their way through the food.

* * *

There are some things every kid in Cringleville knows how to do. They can identify evergreens by scent alone and run interference when a classmate discovers that Santa isn't real. They know extra verses of every Christmas song, can wrap a present before most people have even found the roll of tape, and tie perfect bows. And they can definitely build and light a fire that will burn steadily for hours.

Rey's socks are striped green and red. Ben knows this because her feet are propped up on the edge of the coffee table while she sips her hot cocoa next to him.

“I just hate how the little marshmallows dissolve so fast.” She plucks the giant white puff out of her mug and takes a bite from the bottom, where it's foamy and soft and dripping with chocolate. “I like a big one.”

“Wow, that's... really personal.”

She snorts a laugh through her nose so she won't choke.  
  
Before she can respond, the whole house goes dark. The distant hum of the refrigerator, something he's never consciously noticed, is gone and if it weren't for the quiet crackling rush of the fire, they would be sitting in total silence.

Rey snuggles back into the sofa cushion, her shoulders digging into the pillowy plushness. She's more at ease than he's ever seen her and, in the flickering light, her face softens blissfully. “And now, we camp.”

“Great, you do that. I'll be right back.”

Not for the first time, his dad's insistence on stashing flashlights and matches in every room of the house pays off. A compact LED flashlight rolls around in the side table's drawer when Ben opens it.

Bathroom faucets set to a slow trickle so the pipes won't freeze. Blankets and sheets and extra pillows gathered from the linen closet upstairs, cushions from the living room sofa. Finally, he unplugs his phone, and closes the sliding pocket doors to the family room to keep the heat in.

Rey is already making a pile in front of the fire. _One_ pile and he's trying not to read too much into it because he's planning to sleep on the couch, but she's brought his half-full mug of cocoa and the plate of cookies over to the brick hearth and it looks so inviting.

She pats the sheet-covered makeshift bed in front of her and takes a bite out of a cookie that drops crumbs all over her.

“You're really going to eat in bed?” He folds his legs up beneath him as he sits, facing her. The fireplace kicks out heat, warming the half of his body closest to it, swirling over his neck and cheek.

“You bet.”

“We'll get mice. Is that how you want to wake up?”

She laughs, and it's not the quick one he's used to. It's long and makes her eyes glitter when it's over.

“If we run out of wood, which decoration will you burn first?” she asks.

Ben looks around. At the quilted tree skirt and the growing stack of gifts under the tree. At the spruce and juniper garland draped over the mantle. At the figurine of Santa at the beach, sipping a piña colada in a hammock strung up between two palm trees.

“The reindeer in the hallway,” he decides. “They're just logs with eyes glued on.”

“Fair point. Then what?” She's taking her hair down and shaking it loose, scattering the scent of her shampoo. The hair tie is a dark line around her wrist.

“The nutcrackers in the dining room. I've hated them my whole life.”

“What's the worst thing about being from Cringleville?”

She's doing it now—asking the rapid-fire, wall-finding questions. And part of him would love to tell her that he's not interesting and that he just wants her to coat his tongue. But another part of him loves the talking because it feels different with her.

“How fucking embarrassing it is to tell people that I'm from here,” he says. “It sounds like a punchline, so I just don't anymore. I make shit up.”

Rey takes a long, quiet breath and he only has a half a second to wonder what it means before she blurts it out. “I feel stuck most of the year.”

Ben stops, mug halfway to his mouth.

“You do?”

“Yeah. You were right, before. About it being great for two months.” She's looking into the flames, eyes a little out of focus. The embers glow in mesmerizing pulses. With a small shake of her head, she comes back. “I feel like I'm in the way during the off season. It's just a week of planting in the spring. Then mowing, spraying and fertilizing in the summer. Shearing. It's a job, but Norra and Finn are a lot better with that stuff.”

She says his name with such obvious affection that he has to ask. “So are you and him...”

“Finn?” Rey laughs. “No. He's married to the guy who owns the café on Main Street.”

Ben can't even picture the place, let alone the person who owns it. “He must've moved in after I left.”

“Two years ago, maybe a little less. He showed up a bit after me.”

Ben's doing the quick mental math of the relationship. “That seems fast.” He knows it's judgmental, but it's difficult to imagine someone younger than him already married to a newcomer. Someone who wouldn't be a stranger at all if Ben had stayed. Maybe that's the part that's jarring.

“I guess when you know, you know.” Rey sips around the big marshmallow. “As soon as they met, they were inseparable.”

“That must be nice.”

“Wouldn't know.” The bottom of her cup clinks on the hearth when she sets it down. She says it lightly, but it's undoubtedly time to change the subject.

The firelight moves over her, and it's impossible to look at anything besides the way it sets off the perfect point of her nose and the halo of her loose hair. He should tell her she's beautiful, but he's not sure she would appreciate it or even really care.

She slides closer. “Want to tell ghost stories?”

“No, I want to—” Fuck, he almost said it. That he can't stop thinking about kissing her. Her lips are right there.

“What do you want, Ben?”

He could do it. Nobody will know but them, and it can be a while-he's-here thing. Just a diversion for both of them, just to blow off some steam tonight.

Rey does it first. She leans in and her mouth catches his, and it's almost the first time he's felt her skin. She's syrupy sweet, chocolately tongue and creamy soft lips. Testing and tasting, her breath gusting hot and mixing with his. His hand sliding down her arm, his fingers catching in the stretchy knit of her sweater, but the muscles underneath make him grip her harder. As many ways as he imagined her, the reality is better. Silky hair and she smells like cinnamon and nutmeg; she's ticking boxes he didn't even know he had. Her sure movements have energy of their own, and he lets her push into him, over him. On top of him.

The sweetness fades as the kiss goes on, replaced by the new taste of her. She straddles him and the way she's moving makes his jeans fit too tight. Wriggling out of her sweater, she pulls away to drag it over her head, and her bra is thin white fabric, stretched taut over her chest and if she knows it's kind of see-through, she's a genius. There's no clasp, so his hands just work on her through it, thumbs rasping over the covered tips that harden under his touch. She's grinding against his cock and, truthfully, this’ll work embarrassingly quickly because it's been so fucking long. This is already so much and Rey is tugging up at the hem of his shirt and running her fingers over him as soon as he's out of it.

If she has a plan, it's only forming now, as she slides her leggings off and flings them out of the way. And he's finally unbuttoning his jeans and tugging them down like he's wanted to the second they were alone. Ben seriously underestimated the amount of physical labor she does, because her body is lean and tight with muscle, and he's going to come so fast if he doesn't pace himself.

Her underwear is soft cotton, high-waisted and covered in a print of tiny Christmas trees that he can only barely see in the dim light and he's ready to combust. This has all the rush of stolen privacy, just fragments of what he's used to at home, in his apartment. There, he would unwrap her and take his time. Here, it's whatever and as much as they can get.

The barrier of fabric between them is soaked, but it's still there. Through it, she's pressing against the underside of his cock and the shine of precome is beading. They must both need this soon because she brings her hand up to her mouth and reaches down to coat his cock with the wetness of her spit. Her grip is firm and she's watching his reaction. And it's fine—he can hold off for a little—but then she's pulling her underwear to the side and lining him up.

 _Oh, fuck._ They're really doing this. Like _this._ Fast and impulsive.

He nods before she can even ask.  
  
She feels delicate and warm and slippery, and he wants to buck up into her and push her hips down onto him until he bottoms out. He wants to go so fucking hard but it's too soon.

Ben pulls her down so he can feel her body move as she works herself onto his cock, her chest pressed to his. The sounds she's making—groans that she tries to stop—almost ruin him because now he's wrapped in her. The heat, the strength, and then the sliding. He pushes up into her, just a little, and her fingers dig into his shoulder.

“Oh my god.” She breathes it, shakily.

He's about to ask if she's okay, if she needs a break, if it's too much. If she wants to stop and pretend this never happened and they can go back to talking. But before he can open his mouth, Rey starts to move and it all dies on the way to his tongue.

It's like something takes her over, and she sits up to ride him. Holds his arms down and he's not sure if she means it like _that_ , or if it's just the closest thing for her to hold on to. It's okay if she means it like that, though. He likes that, too. Her hair falls down around her sweaty face and she's using him, snapping her hips hard to get off, legs spread wide. All of her sharpness and drive is focused on this one urge and he already wants her to do it again. In the morning. Every day.

“I'm so close.” The clenched-jawed, pleading way she says it makes him ache.

Her nails scrape over his chest and he hopes they'll leave marks. God, he wants scratches there for days, that he can touch when he thinks about how wet and sure she is. The tightening is unmistakable—the way her body's starting to lock up and her rocking gets a heavy rhythm that keeps pressure where she needs it.

“Fucking come on it,” he says.

The sounds she was holding back before break free, and she shakes and arches and squeezes her eyes shut. This is the face he wants to remember: of her using his cock like it was made for her. Rey stills and drops down onto him, spent and gasping. Ben wraps his arms around her, feeling how her back lifts with every inhale and her smaller heartbeat slams against his ribs. So soon, she's moving again and this—this post-orgasm need for more of him—is what will make him lose it.

“Please fuck me.” It's barely more than a whisper.

“Yeah?”

He starts slow, but it's not enough for either of them, and Ben grabs her so he can go as fast as he needs to. The fabric of her underwear is rubbing against the side of his cock and she takes it like she needs even more, pushing back to meet his thrusts. There are filthy things he wants to say to her, to ask her if she wants his come because that's how she's fucking him. That he can make it hurt if she likes that. He's slamming into her, hand wrapped around the bunched fabric stretched over her ass to hold it out of the way. Getting deep, and the tight grip of her has him slipping but he needs to see her face again.

“Look at me.”

Rey lifts her head, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth slick and open and it's going to happen. He holds her off of him as he pulls out, and his hand keeps the speed. The explosion comes fast and hard, the intensity pumping his body and emptying with so much force that he gasps at the shock of it.

When it's over, he lets himself go slack, limbs heavy after the release. But he keeps his hand curled so it won't drip onto the plaid flannel sheets.

They got here so quickly, but it feels inevitable. She's staring down at the glistening drops that cool on his stomach, and swipes her finger and slides it into her mouth. It makes his flagging cock twitch.

“Rey—”

She cuts him off with a kiss, just a little lazier than the first one. A little slower and sleepier and she tastes like his come. With a small, final kiss on the corner of his mouth, she pulls away.

“I'll be right back. Don't move.” She grabs the flashlight off of the end table and heads for the bathroom.

The room feels empty without her, and his thoughts, if he could form any, would be racing. At how quickly things just changed. Or maybe they didn't change at all.

The ceiling might be the only thing in the room that's not decorated for Christmas, and Ben stares up at it, listening to the wind howl across the top of the chimney. Then there's the toilet flushing and the water running and Rey slips back into the room, her underwear bunched in her hand along with a bundle of toilet paper.

“It's freezing out there,” she tells him as she deposits the clean wad of toilet paper onto his chest and shuffles down under the blankets. She hands the flashlight to him like a relay baton. He's so ready to curl up around her and warm her up, but he has to take care of the mess that he's still dabbing at.

He makes his way to the bathroom, hand cupped so he won't drip come on the heirloom rug in the hallway. He rests the flashlight next to the sink, pointing straight up and casting shadows of the snowman soap pump all around the small room. The water from the sink is frigid and he works fast, mopping up the come caught in his pubes before he can feel like a guilty teenager. They haven't done anything wrong, exactly, but it still feels like a secret. The hand towel has a grinning Rudolph on it and he can't bring himself to dry his clean hands off with it, so he gives them a shake on his way back to the family room.

There's a new log on the fire, placed to allow for airflow, and Rey flips back the down-filled duvet so he can crawl in beside her. The cushions make an uneven mattress, but it's warm and she's completely naked next to him, so he'll put up with a lot.

“Are we not going to talk about what just happened?” He drapes his arm over her to sweep his hand over the small rise of her breast and cradle it.

“Nope,” she says. “It felt great. I like you. We're good.”

There are a dozen places he can go from here, but only one thing she said really sticks out as essential. “You like me?”

“Enough.”

Ben pulls her closer to nuzzle his nose into her hair until her breathing slows, and he follows, sinking into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

He wakes up with his face stuck to her shoulder. When he pulls away, it's damp with drool.

“Sorry.” He dabs at it with the edge of the sheet while she's stretching and yawning. Weak morning light seeps in around the edges of the curtains and the fire has burned down to smoldering coals buried in ash.

“Did I snore?” Her voice is scratchy with sleep.

“Don't know. Did I?”

“No.” Rey rolls over and taps the pad of her finger to his bottom lip. Her hair is a wild tangle. “What are you going to feed me for breakfast?”

Ben reaches over his head to take a stale cookie from the plate sitting on the hearth without looking: a peanut butter blossom, and the Hershey's kiss in the middle is hard from the cold. “Open up.”

She shuts her eyes and opens her mouth wide. There's a crease mark on her cheek from her pillowcase, and Ben kisses it before pushing the cookie into her mouth. Her eyes fly open, and her mouth curls into a grin as she chews.

“My favorite,” she says after she gulps it down. “But I thought you didn't want mice.”

“I changed my mind.”

She starts to sit up, and cold air rushes under the covers. Ben rakes his hair back as he watches her get dressed, his stomach sinking. It's every bit as unpleasant as the chilly air.

“Are you leaving?”

She's searching for her other sock. “You can come with me. I just want to walk next door and check on a few things.”

* * *

When Rey steps into a drift of the powdery snow, she sinks in almost to her knees but doesn't let it slow her down.

Dense and quiet, the woods between his house and Cane's were always Ben's favorite place to play as a kid. He spent hours hopping across streams, catching frogs, and climbing on mossy fallen trees. He built things, long gone except for a crude bridge over the widest stream. It's covered by snow at the moment, but he can tell that, under the stomping of their boots, it's been maintained.

With all the confidence of someone who makes the trek often, Rey takes a shortcut through the two biggest fields of conical trees. Clumps of snow fall from the branches with a rustle and a springy shake.

“So where do you live?” Ben asks.

Rey readjusts her hat so it covers the tops of her ears and points to the shop. “I converted one of the offices upstairs.”

He's being nosy again, but as curious as he was last night, it's nothing compared to the urgent need he has this morning to get closer to her before they run out of time. That she lives where she works is completely fitting.

“Didn't Mr. Cooper have a house?” A Victorian, on Holly Road—just off of Main Street—with a turret and intricate woodwork around the front porch.

“I sold it to pay for upgrades. Poe bought it.”

His chest tightens at the hidden fortitude in her voice. A maybe-home lost. He wonders if she lived in it for a while and made graph paper plans. Had paint chips taped to the walls and stared at empty rooms, imagining. Or maybe she was brutally practical and didn't get attached.

At the shop's side door, Rey kicks her boots against the concrete foundation to knock the snow loose. “I'll be right back,” she tells him. Another wall, and an understandable one. She hasn't seen his place, either.

“No problem.” Ben crams his hands into his pockets and bounces on his heels a little as she disappears inside the dark shop. He cranes his neck to look up at the solar panels, their corners and top edges peeking out where the snow has started to drip off.

It's good to be outside, with nothing much to do. His phone's in his pocket, but if his work inbox is filling up, he's blithely unaware. He's well-rested, surrounded by piles of snow, and he just got laid for the first time in forever. The exhaustion in his bones is gradually melting away.

When Rey opens the door, he waits for her to close and lock it before he pushes her up against the siding and kisses her soundly.

“We have security cameras, you know.” She dabs on more lip balm to replace what he kissed off of her. It tastes like vanilla.

“Okay, I won't steal anything.”

On the way back, she walks in front. Her coat's too long to really let him see the curve of her ass, but her hips swing as she tramps back over their footprints.

In the privacy between closely planted trees—a field of concolor firs for future Christmases—Ben stops and crouches stealthily to scoop up a handful of snow and packs it into a ball. Takes a second to aim.

It lands perfectly between her shoulder blades.

She stops, mid-stride. Doesn't turn around, doesn't start making one to retaliate with, and maybe he startled her more than he meant to.

“Sorry,” he says quickly.

“No, you're about to be.” He can hear a smile in the threat, and it's still there when she spins around.

“Am I?” He takes a step toward her, grinning in response.

She moves in until her chest bumps against his. “Oh yeah.” She's taking off her mittens and hooking her fingers into his waistband. She gets the button open and eases down his zipper. He woke up hard and it's been a struggle to keep it under control all morning, remembering the way she felt; this is all the encouragement it needs.

Her mitten falls and she ducks down to pick it up. After she straightens, she grips him, her small hand damp from being plunged into the snow. His hips snap back at the shock, but it's still her hand on his cock so he pushes forward. The cold dissipates quickly and he doesn't mind it at all now. He closes his hand around hers and moves them together, groaning at the feeling.

“Was this supposed to make me sorry?”

Her cheeks are flushed, her hair escaping around the folded edge of her hat when she looks up at him. And he crushes his mouth to hers, lets his tongue dip and slide while he fucks their hands. Rey is pressed against him, trying to get friction, and he shifts his thigh to give her a little.

“Fuck, come here,” he says, dropping his hand to hold her. He turns her around so her back is digging into him, his arm locked around her shoulders. His cock can wait because he just needs to touch her until her knees buckle. “Outside, Rey? Where anyone could see us?”

They'd have to be looking, out after a snowstorm, the roads only just plowed. And at the back of the property, in a clump of nearly identical fir trees. It's a risk, but an imagined one.

The bottom buttons of her coat are easy enough to undo, and his hand dives down the front of her leggings. The icy touch makes her jolt too, then whimper when he rolls his fingers flat against her clit, careful at first and then a little harder when she needs it, restricted by the stretchiness of her pants. And, finally, the glide down, and the teasing, testing push that makes her hiss with pleasure. She's so warm inside, wet and gripping and soft. The temperature change makes his cold fingers sting and tingle, but everything is her and the way she's pushing back into him. The fabric of her coat rubs against his hardness and he'll get precome all over her if he keeps this up, so he turns his hips to the side.

“Let me hear you again. Please.” He says it into her ear, his other hand dropping to work his cock.

She gives him breathy panting and moans that catch and tumble out of her mouth. Fingers hooked, palm hitting, and she's breaking apart.

A sound escapes him, too, because he knows he's doing this to her and that—just for a moment—she's his. Her tension and movement, her gasps and his name. She's floating back down, breathless, when Ben slips his fingers out and tastes her on them. The sharp sweetness is all he needs. Aiming for the snow-covered ground, he comes with groans that he muffles against her shoulder, thrusting into his hand the way he fucked her last night, urgent and needy. Spent, he leans against her to catch his breath and plants a kiss on her pink cheek. She tips her head back.

“Did you just come on my tree farm?”

“Yeah. The asshole tax I paid should cover damages, though.”

“I'll just make a note on the receipt for the auditor.”

She fits where he's always wanted someone. She meets what he says.

Cars are starting to carefully crunch by on the unseen, distant road and he's glad they put every cushion back before they left. And, sure enough, he's got a missed call from Leia.

“Guess it's time to go dig your car out,” Ben says with resignation. But he wonders if she knows it has far less to do with the work ahead than the fact that she's leaving.

* * *

“Hey, neighbor!” Rey calls, waving to Chew, Han, and Lando when they're in view. They return the wave and the shout. They're bundled up with snow shovels in hand, scooping back the snow mounded around the tires of Lando's car.

“Just a little snow, huh kids?” Han says dryly as they walk up.

He looks hungover, but Lando is bright-eyed and cheery as he brushes off his windshield. Chew's beard and hair are too dense to really get a good look.

They've already dug out Rey's car, and it's too sudden when she opens the front door of the house and goes inside. It's even worse and more abrupt when she comes back out clutching a plastic container full of cookies Leia must have insisted she take. Her keys in her other hand, her bag slung across her shoulders and he wants to kiss her but, with the audience, settles for scuffing the toe of his boot against the shoveled pavement, hands crammed into his pockets. He'll have to wash his fingers off before he can grab a shovel and help because she's still on him.

“Thanks,” she says, and it sounds incomplete. Like there's more she wants to say.

“Anytime.” He's got a lot more, too: that he wants to taste her again and talk to her and he would kill to stand in a hot shower with her right now.

She gives Lando, Chew, and Han hugs and thanks.

Ben doesn't watch her car pull out of the driveway, doesn't wave back with the others at the little goodbye beeps she taps on her horn.

“The phone advice was good,” Ben says quietly to Lando as he passes him and it earns him a full, knowing laugh.


	3. Chapter 3

Melted chocolate spills from a bowl onto the cool marble slab. Kaydel spreads the satiny pool out with a pallet knife, humming along to Eartha Kitt asking Santa for the deed to a platinum mine.

In the corner, the small table Ben's sitting at has the best view, perfectly positioned to watch chocolate tempering behind the counter and the bustle of the street outside. The Main Street Bakery is an essential part of Cringleville throughout the year, but when Christmas comes around, it's iconic.

Display cases packed full of immaculately iced sugar cookies, rum balls, mince pies, panettone, brandy-soaked Christmas puddings, stollen, Yule logs, honeyed melomakarona, sugarplums, coconut-dusted bibingka, Linzer cookies, and fig-stuffed cuccidati. A lot of things about Cringleville make him feel cut off from the outside world, but the bakery has never been one of them. If it were possible to taste all of Christmas at once, this would be the place to do it.

White penny tiles with spotless grout cover the floor, and the space might still have some of its 1910s antiseptic severity beneath the draping garlands and antique baking tins lining the walls, but it's one of many layers.

And, of course, there's the unbelievably ornate gingerbread house in the front window. An annual feat of engineering and patience, it's made to be squinted at, the tiny lit windows looked through to see gumdrop armchairs and fondant rugs and a library of marzipan books. He's sure this year's is already the background of countless Instagram photos, but as a child, looking at it was almost a mystical experience. He dreamed of being small enough to walk up the front steps and live inside.

A kid runs up to the window to mash his nose to the glass, and his breath leaves a fogged, shrinking circle behind when his mother finally pulls him away to continue with their errands. Ben eats another chocolate-dipped cardamom cookie as he watches them walk toward the town square.

The eight massive trees that ring the center of town seem like they've always been the same size, but it's probably because Ben grew with them. They're temporarily decorated: each contestant will have until noon on Christmas Day to take down the few ornaments and prepare their tree. People are milling around their assigned spot, making final decisions about angles and lighting.

But one pair is scattering birdseed at the base of an evergreen, and they pause to pose for a picture together, holding up buckets and smiling brightly. Ben squints. The cream coat and red hat are unmistakable.

“What's Rey doing for Christmas Eve this year?” Kaydel asks Rose when she returns from the kitchen with a cookie sheet packed with refills.

Ben focuses fiercely on the laminated price list held up between the small sugar bowl and napkin dispenser at his table.

“I told her to come stay with us.” Rose straightens a row of sugarplums before she sets out more. “I think it's just hard for her. It's Poe and Finn's first Christmas together after the wedding, too. She said she feels like she's imposing.”

“She's not, though.” Kaydel scrapes off her pallet knife.

“I know. I told her. It's the whole third wheel thing.” Rose leans over to look at the chocolate and gives Kaydel a little hip bump. “Nice job, babe.”

“Thanks,” Kaydel says distractedly. “Does she still talk about leaving?”

Rose slides the display case closed. “Yeah.”

The bell above the door rings as a new customer enters, and the conversation comes to a quick end, replaced by perky greetings.

But Ben's looking out the window, thinking.

* * *

Next to him on the bed, his phone buzzes with an incoming text. Rey is staying in the extra guest room, just across the hallway from his, and he can't remember the last time Christmas Eve felt so electric.

All it took was a passing mention to Han in the garage the next day as they were ducked under the lifted hood of the truck. And so, earlier tonight, Rey knocked at their front door just after 8:30, loaded down with cookies that Rose and Kaydel had insisted she take when she left their house. Between the eavesdropping and parental machinations, Ben was feeling exposed. So he crammed himself into the opposite corner of the sofa, keeping his eyes locked on _Home Alone_ when she curled up under a snowflake-patterned blanket with a cup of mulled wine Leia had poured for her.

“Hi, Ben,” she said quietly, leaning forward to see around Han.

“Hey.” He gave a stiff wave.

“Thanks for having me,” she said to Han, settling back.

“No problem,” Han drawled. He pointed to the screen. “These guys should be dead by now.”

Keeping his phone low, Ben texted her.

_Missed you._

Her reply was quick.

_I'm going to sneak into your room later._

And now “later” is here, the wine has worn off, and Ben's beginning to wonder if she changed her mind. But when he checks his phone, it's her.

_May I sneak?_

His door has been unlocked and left ajar since everyone went to bed, but he gives his old room a once-over before he answers.

It's recognizable, but in a sanitized way. The bed's scrolled headboard and the antique dresser are the same, but the thrash and punk posters covering the walls are long gone. In their place are landscape paintings and a soothingly neutral paint color. The bookshelf no longer holds the model airplanes he made as a kid or the interesting rocks and animal bones he found on wandering walks alone in the woods. There are bestsellers and coffee table books and magazines instead—inoffensive distractions for visitors.

It all had to happen—Ben moved out and Leia had called him about each thing—but it makes him feel like a ghost watching his once-familiar space morph over time into somewhere new. It's not a bad thing, and maybe it's because he likes his sparse apartment so much, but he's surprised by how little it bothers him.

He shoves a pair of dirty socks into his bag before he texts her back.

_Door's open._

Ben arranges himself in the bed and hopes it looks natural. The mostly empty box of tissues on the nightstand is a bit incriminating, but his black lounge pants are clean and that's probably all that matters. He's been thinking about her non-stop since they got snowed in together, replaying the way the firelight flickered over her body and trying to come up with ways to make her miss him.

The door swings open noiselessly and Rey holds a finger up to her lips. She's wearing loose, dark green satin pajamas and he can't stop smiling at her as she silently closes the door and tiptoes over to his bed.

“Hey,” she whispers.

“Hey.”

The comforter does a great job of hiding the erection that has decided that Rey climbing into a bed is now it's cue. But she's got the same idea and slides over to press herself against the length of him, warm underneath the cool fabric, and he is not going to waste a second of this. At the first brush of her hand on his cock, he's dragging down his elastic waistband and then kicking his pants to the bottom of the bed. He doesn't even wait until she's done taking hers off to get his hands on her ass, to squeeze and massage even while she rolls onto her back, pulling him with her.

Legs splayed wide for him, she kisses him and tastes like toothpaste. The oversized pajama top smells like clean laundry and her faded perfume. Rey's mapping him with her hands and catching his bottom lip between her teeth and tipping her hips up to meet him.

He's acutely aware of every sound they're making: the rustle of the sheets, their heavy breathing, the movement of their tongues. Years of experience have taught him what noises the walls of his room will absorb, and what's loud enough to be heard down the hall, through closed doors.

Ben pushes up to kneel between her legs. She shaved, so recent that there's no hint of stubble—just the patch of clipped hair on top and everything he touches is velvety and, deeper, it's slick. With a single, slow finger, he dips into her—just a little—and spreads the wetness around. When he rolls it over her clit, she claws at the pillows.

He could tease her for hours. Back home, with the lights on and curtains open, they'd be too high up for anyone to see. Spread out on his bed, tied up and begging. They don't have hours here, though. They have urgency and need.

He runs his cock over everything that's wet, glides against her clit, sweeps the head of his cock between her lips and, later, he's going to think about coming on her here and watching it drip down while he holds her wrists so she can't touch herself.

Feet braced against the mattress, Rey kicks up impatiently.

So he gives it to her, and it takes one short thrust so she coats him, before he can push it all into her. Her mouth drops open and her head falls back and she wraps her hands tight around his arms as he holds himself over her, but she's quiet.

The bed frame creaks softly with his thrusts, but it's alright. He leans down to whisper to her. “Is this why you came in here?”

“Yes.” Then a gasp, too loud, when he curls his hips into her.

Ben covers her mouth with his hand, but doesn't slow. “You have to be quiet if you want me to fuck you.” Her breath rushes over the edge of his hand, fast through her nose. She's thrusting too, small movements that tilt and rock. It's warm beneath the blankets that mute the soaking sounds. “Can you come like this?”

Rey nods, eyelids already heavy with how close she is.

He breathes hot into the humid curve of her neck, and their sweat makes them slip.

“Be loud in my hand,” he tells her.

His palm stifles her moans, and her eyebrows are drawing together and she looks like she's about to cry, but then she's coming. Her legs are locked around him and he knows it's the grinding that does it, the way he's giving her pressure.

When she slackens, softening beneath him, he replaces his hand with his mouth. Her lips are trembling but strong and he only stops so he can look down at her body, at the way she's taking his cock. Rey runs her hands over her chest, satin swirling under the touch, and he is going to lose his mind if she keeps doing that.

Pushing himself up, he struggles one-handed with the fabric-covered buttons until Rey helps. And the second it's unbuttoned, he's shoving the satin out of the way to watch her tits bounce.

They're small and perfect and he swears to himself that one day, he'll get his mouth around one and flick his tongue and suck and—

He's going to come. Has to see it on her skin. So he uses the last seconds to get out of her and push her legs down so he can straddle her. He loves to fuck himself when his cock is wet with her, but all he sees is the way she's cupping herself like she's offering it to him.

Rey's whispering and watching him jerk off. His name, telling him to do it.

Pale pink nipples and perky tits and he's flinging his come all over them. Over her hands pressing them together and it's dripping between his fingers, too, and he's keeping his jaw tight so he won't make any noise but fuck, he wants to. He wants to push his drenched cock back into her and get it deep.

Instead, when it's over, he reaches over and grabs a handful of tissues.

“Sorry, I think some dripped.”

But she's grinning up at him and licking off her knuckles, and when Ben climbs off of her, he lays down right beside her, chin on her shoulder. Cleaned up, he's still catching his breath. Wisps of hair spiral around her ears, and he twirls a strand around his finger.

“I like you, too,” he says. “I didn't tell you before, but I do.”

Rey gives her sternum a final swipe with a tissue and flicks the crumpled wad off the side of the bed, onto the floor. When she turns to face him, snuggling down into the pillow, she's the only person he wants to be around. Ben wants hours to go by, flying like seconds while he looks at her.

She rubs her nose against his. “Merry Christmas, Ben.”

“Merry Christmas.”

“Tell me a story.”

Ben is sure it's recited more in Cringleville schools than the Pledge of Allegiance, which is definitely for the best, and it tumbles out of his mouth almost without conscious thought.

“'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house—”

Rey huffs a quiet laugh. “No, a real one. Tell me your favorite Christmas memories.”

He thinks for a moment, searching through the past like unlabeled boxes of ornaments and knotted lights. Countless Christmas pageants, setting his alarm clock for midnight to try to get a peek at Santa, and inspecting the half-eaten cookies in the morning, sure that they were somehow magical because they'd been nibbled on by an adult man who could jump down chimneys. Then he remembers, laughing a little.

“One year, I think I was seven or eight, Chew let me decorate him.”

“No.”

“Yeah. There are pictures somewhere. I fit so many ornaments in his beard.”

Rey's whole face is lit up at the thought. “Oh my god, Ben, we have to do that next year.”

He grins, tying to hide how hearing her talk about doing anything next year with him makes him want to hug her and never let go. “Yeah, we should.”

Her face falls a little, like she realized what she just said.

“What about you?” he asks, trying to keep things flowing. “What's your best one?”

There's an immediate barrier, but she finds something. “The first Christmas after I moved here. Everything about it.” There's so much certainty in her voice that he regrets all the times he shit-talked this place to her. “I'd never seen anything so amazing. I don't have many memories like those.” She pauses. “I was alone a lot.”

Ben strokes her arm. They're skirting her pain and he wants to be gentle. “Is that why you're here?”

“Maybe at first. But it doesn't fix everything.”

“Are you happy?” Is _he_? He hasn't given it much thought. Day-to-day, his life in the city feels almost as small as it did when he was here. Gym, home, work, repeat. But it's less trapped, and he's surrounded by airports and other jobs and ways to escape.

“I—” She's searching for the right words. “I think about what I do most of the year and... it's just that I could do all of that from anywhere.”

The world is in her eyes.

Ben swallows back the flutter of possibility that sticks in his throat. “Yeah, you could.”

He wants to wake up to her in his apartment, smiling from the pillow next to him. Or she could be the pop of toast in the kitchen, the clink of a spoon in a mug. The daily Zoom meeting he has to stay out of the background of. The happy tinkling of keys when she comes home from running errands.

Ben thinks of the small red-wrapped box in his bag.

Or maybe she's more of a night person, and he would hear her muffled laughter from the living room as she watches a movie, or the shower splashing long and hot until she emerges in a cloud of steam. He doesn't know if he can stand to miss a second of her and the offer that's been on the tip of his tongue feels so natural even though it's so much.

“Rey, come with me.”

She combs her fingers through his hair and he wonders if this is really happening because she looks thoughtful and completely unsurprised. Like she expected this, but just needs a little more time. “I'll think about it.”

He doesn't believe that anything in life is supposed to happen. There's no such thing as destiny or fate. And yet, the feeling he gets when he watches her is like its own morning.

“I think I've imagined you my whole life.”

“Don't be ridiculous.” She doesn't stop running her fingers through his hair.

“No, I mean it. I—”

Now she stops. And her eyes are swimmable but there's a wall beyond them.

“Don't say it, Ben. It's too soon.”

“I wasn't going to.”

He was. He was going to say it softly and recklessly, hand on her cheek, thumb wiping away her gathering tears. Because she was right: when you know, you know.

* * *

Ben wakes up alone and he doesn't freak out yet. Because maybe she just crept back into her room to avoid questions, or is already up. He snatches his pants off the floor and crams his legs into them before distractedly pulling on a robe, not bothering to tie it.

He hurries down the stairs.

Leia is sitting alone at the dining table, his view of her blocked by the morning paper. “Haven't heard you rush down here on Christmas morning like that since you were ten.” She lets the top half of the paper flop down so she can level him with a pointed stare.

Ignoring that, Ben cranes his neck to glance into the kitchen. “Have you seen Rey?”

“She left early to go get set up. She said to tell you she'd meet you there.”

Ben scrubs his hand over his face. “You talked to her?”

“Yes.”

“Did she seem upset?”

With measured movements, Leia sets the paper aside before she laces her fingers together tightly and rests them in front of her on the table. Her eyes are steel.

“Did you do something to upset her?”

“No. Mom, no—I'm just leaving soon and I think she's...” Heartbroken? Angry? Flustered? Every way he can finish the sentence sounds completely self-absorbed.

Leia relaxes, but now she's got that stubborn-chinned look that makes him sure he'll never get an answer she doesn't want him to have.

“You'll have to ask her yourself. _After_ we open presents and eat.”

* * *

The square has transformed into a hive of activity, with local news stations, roving packs of kids, and crowds of people looking at everything through the screens of their phones. The trees themselves are barely controlled chaos—dense mats of tiny ornaments or a sea of bows. Cones of lights or encircled by glinting garland. They're roped off and guarded, to prevent memento-takers and prank-planners from defacing the work. Only one tree, at the far end, is really worth looking at. Ben scans the crowd for Rey.

Luke gives the reporter he's chatting with a final handshake and a genuine laugh before walking over to them. Ben braces himself for the usual tension.

Warm hugs for his parents and Chew and Lando. And a cautious nod when he gets to Ben, testing the waters.

The first year after he moved away, they almost completely ignored each other. The year after, Ben had refused to speak to him, offering only a silent, stiff wave. But they've settled into some kind of ritual that Ben doesn't fully understand. And Luke must be sick of it too, because when Ben gives him a smile that's a bit warmer than the last time, Luke mutters something about years and not giving a shit, and pulls him into a hug.

“Good to see you, Ben.”

Ben hugs him back. “You too, Uncle Luke.”

And maybe some people are watching, and there might be some gossip happening but it's all old news. Over Luke's shoulder, Leia is practically aglow.

Luke takes a step back. “The judges already voted. We're just waiting for the final count before I make the announcement.”

And finally, he sees Rey. She's being interviewed, and behind her, her tree is working better than he imagined.

Over a cranberry garland, ornaments of suet stars and orange slices swing. A small heated birdbath hangs from a sturdy bough, and the solar fountain inside makes a pristine trickling sound as tiny birds take quick sips. More birds nestle in the branches, fluffed up against the cold. There's a vibrant scarlet flash of a cardinal. A squirrel sits in front of the tree, cautiously watching the onlookers as it gnaws loudly on walnut. The lights are wrapped tight around the trunk, tucked deep, and the glimpses of them look like stars on a frozen night. The tree is alive and ever-changing, its branches moving with the weight of animals. It's mesmerizing and, in the midst of the gaudy, ribbon-draped competition that's so covered in shiny ornaments that the trees are hardly visible, it's a perfect change. Spectators gather with aimed phones and pointing. Dr. Harter, from the wildlife rehabilitation center, is answering questions.

“Think it's pretty obvious who won,” Han says. “Looks like everybody else dumped out the clearance bin from a Hallmark store and called it a day.”

Leia makes a scolding sound at him. “If you think I won't put your name in for next year, you've got another thing coming.”

Han holds up a hand. “Now, wait a minute—”

Luke taps on a mic, and the speakers amplify the soft thumping sound. A few birds fly away from Rey's tree, but they circle back, too tempted by the temporary feast.

The makeshift stage is flanked by small trees decorated by school kids, each grade working together. Ben has a few repressed elementary school memories of sneaking bites of the salt dough they used to make glitter-covered ornaments.

Luke gives the usual welcome speech, talking about how hard everyone worked and how difficult the decision was. His beard has gone almost completely white, and Ben wonders if he's consciously trying to look like Santa or if that just happens naturally. Beside him, Jannah is rifling through papers.

Rey's arms are interlocked with her friends', sandwiched between Finn and Rose while Kaydel rubs her back comfortingly. Rey catches his eye and Ben gives her a reassuring smile.

“And the winner of this year's Cringleville Tree Contest is...” He struggles to open the envelope with his gloves on, and Jannah has to reach over to slide the card out. “Sorry. The winner is Team 7!”

He doesn't even need to listen to Luke. Rey is immediately buried in a group hug that grows bigger as more people join in, cheering. As great as it is to see her happy, Ben also enjoys the barely hidden scowls of people who schemed and bought their way in, only to lose to someone who's going to give all the winnings to bottle-fed baby raccoons and tiny bats with splinted wings.

The contest is bullshit. Always. But he's never been more proud of anyone in his life. Dr. Harter is crying when Rey disentangles herself from the crowd to hurry over and hug her. And it's hard not to feel a lonely pang when Finn catches someone in an embrace and a happy kiss, and Ben decides it's easier to watch the people who high five and fist bump.

It's even easier to watch Rey rush over to his clapping parents and pull them into quick squeezes. It's best when she gets to him and jumps into a hug. Without thinking, he catches her and she presses her lips to his cheek.

“Thank you,” she says, so only he can hear.

With her in his arms, the crowd seems to fade. “ _You_ did it.” When she slides off of him, Ben remembers what's in his coat pocket. “Oh, I got you something.”

He passes the small box to her, its metallic red wrapping paper shimmering. She looks at him, alarmed.

“It's nothing you wear,” he assures her. “You can open it later, if you want.”

She relaxes. “I'll do that. Thank you.”

If she freaks out, he'll say it's just so she has a place to crash. As a friend. No strings and _why_ did he think that shoddily welding a keychain together and threading his spare apartment key on it was the way to do this?

He's back to being thirteen and the weeks he didn't talk because his voice broke so much.

“Sorry, I didn't...” Rey starts again. “I don't have anything for you. Anything I got you would just remind you of here.”

It would remind him of her, too, but she lets that go unsaid. Which is good, because then he'd have to tell her that he wants everything that reminds him of her.

“It's fine. I don't really like getting gifts.” But there's a terrible distant note to what she said, like she doesn't want to give him a parting gift. He's sinking, fast. “You're staying.” He doesn't even have to ask.

If there's such a thing as an apologetic nod, that's what she gives him. “There's so much to do. Field cleanup—”

“You said yourself that Finn and Norra love that stuff.” This is falling apart so quickly, he can still feel the residual happiness and it makes it sting even more.

“I can't leave. It's not fair.” Like her own feelings don't matter at all in the equation.

“What's not fair is you being miserable for the rest of your life when there's such an obvious solution.” His stomach is in a knot.

“I can't.” She gestures behind her to the confused clump of friends standing in the busy square. Only Finn seems to know, expression grim, and he turns to the others to explain in a low voice.

Ben runs his hand over his mouth in frustration. “Okay, you know what? I tried, Rey. I really did. Remember that when it's June and you realize you're giving up another entire year for five fucking weeks.”

“And what will you be doing?” Her eyes flash, and there's something desperate behind it. “Working your ass off for an empty apartment?”

It wasn't supposed to be empty. That's the whole fucking point. “Telling yourself that it's your duty to stay here won't make it feel any better. Trust me, I tried.”

“No, you didn't. You left, and not everyone gets to do that. You stuck-up, selfish—”

She stops. There's an audience forming, drawn by their raised voices and lack of Christmas cheer.

“Glad to hear nothing's changed since we met.” His words are clipped and harsh. Then quieter. “Is that really how you see me, Rey?”

Her mouth's hanging open, and it doesn't matter if she can't or won't answer, because the result is the same: silence. Horrible, heartbreaking silence.

“I had a lot of dreams about you. But you knew that.” He points with his whole arm. “Tree looks great. Congratulations.”

And he walks away so they all know the show's over.

* * *

Ben usually loves the day after Christmas, and the way the spell is broken when he blinks his eyes open. If he were anywhere else, it would be a completely normal day and he wouldn't feel like he'd been run over by a sleigh and trampled by hooves. But there's an ache in his chest, and a feeling of loss that drags him back down into the soft bed that still smells like her.

Maybe it won't hurt so much in a year. Maybe it can be a game they play every Christmas until she finds someone else. Ben thinks of the city, waiting for him to come back, and the emails piling up and the work that never ends.

It's time: the tugging pull to leave is unmistakable and familiar, and the thought of leaving this all behind is something like relief. He can get back to real life and shake this place off of his clothes and keep walking. He just wanted her company this time.

More than that—he thought she wanted the same thing.

With a sigh, Ben heaves himself up and out of the bed to finish packing.

* * *

There's a trick to leaving. A few tricks, really.

He doesn't brush his hand over anywhere he sat with her. Doesn't even look. Doesn't wonder if any of the cookies she brought are in the bag of leftovers his mom is sending home with him. He's careful not to think about it too hard when Leia puts her arms around him and says she's sorry and tells him she loves him. Then he gives fast hugs, says something about beating traffic. The dogs get quick pats before they can look too sad. And Ben definitely can't look back at his parents waving goodbye from the porch when he drives away.

But there's no way to avoid passing Cane's. He keeps his eyes fixed on the empty road ahead.

Something white thumps and splatters against his windshield. He slams on his breaks, unable to see through the remains of the snowball and it's just the last straw. He throws the car into park and rips off his seatbelt. Hazards flashing and he's so ready to shred somebody—anybody—in this stupid town. He kicks open the door, fuming, and tears out of the car, ignoring how his shoes slide a little on the pebbles of road salt.

“Hey asshole!” Rey is standing on the side of the road, a duffle bag slung over her shoulder, and a thousand-watt smile that melts him in an instant.

Still, he wipes off his windshield and flicks the snow from his hand. “That's my line.”

“No, yours is 'Get in'.”

The hope skips right past glimmering to a full burst that envelopes him, and his spreading grin matches hers perfectly.

She gulps, like her tongue won't work. “I love you.”

If he's ever moved faster, he can't remember when, and he catches her face between his hands and kisses her. A car zooms by, horn blaring, but it's like he can't even hear it over the slamming of his heart. Rey wraps her hand around the dangling ends of his scarf and pulls him in tighter. He inhales her along with the winter air, and whatever was making her tongue hesitate when she spoke is long gone, because it's moving against his now.

When his lips tingle and it all feels real, he pulls back and rests his forehead against her. “I love you, too.” Cane's parking lot is empty behind her, the store dark. “What are you doing out here?”

“Finn and Rose talked some sense into me.” She sticks her thumb out, angling it up the late morning road ahead. “So I'm hitching a ride.”

Ben laughs, grateful and floating and happy. “Where are you headed?”

“Home, I hope.” The words are tinged with guarded eagerness.

“Yeah.” He smooths back her hair and she's shining with tears so he kisses her again, firm and fast. “Yeah, you are. Get in.”

* * *

“Keep left, then continue onto Route 9 for 4.3 miles.” The robotic voice interrupts the quiet music.

Ben turns down the volume. He knows this part; it's the interstate when he's closer to the city that throws him off, with the roadwork and toll lanes.

It feels so normal until he glances over and Rey is beside him. Then it feels like a miracle. She's studying his car like it's a new world.

He does a double-take. The gift is on her lap, still wrapped. “Wait, you didn't open that?”

“No, I started a little.” She twirls a loose tail of the string to show him. “It felt wrong until I fixed what I said. I'm sorry, Ben.”

“I'm sorry, too. We can talk about it later.” They'll have long conversations about what they said, carefully teasing the truth out of the angry words, but not yet. The wounds have stopped bleeding, and that's already more than he could have imagined last night. “Go ahead, if you want to.”

He has to press his lips together so he won't smile too much while she's crinkling the wrapping paper.

To his right, someone's trying to merge without a blinker. He swears under his breath.

“Is this what I think it is?” Rey asks. The keychain clinks as she lifts it from the box.

“It's a key to my apartment.”

The car is silent for a long time. Then, her hand is small and blazing on his thigh, even through his jeans. “Thank you, Ben.”

“There's a passcode, too. I'll write it down for you.” Suddenly it's too warm, and he turns the heat down. “What do you want to listen to?”

“Anything but Christmas music.”

He covers her hand with his. “Perfect.”

“One of my favorite things about Christmas is that it ends,” Rey says. “Magic isn't meant to last forever.”

“Sometimes it does, though.”

She smiles over at him. “Maybe.”

He checks his blind spot before he changes lanes. “You'll see.”

* * *

_New Year's Eve_

Hux stands stiffly beside Sloane as she shows him cat pictures on her phone, his hair slicked-back even for parties, even three neat glasses of cognac later. When he notices that Canady is speaking to Ben alone, he amps up his ever-present sneer.

“It would require extensive time out of the office, you understand. With the new locations opening up in Singapore and Barcelona, you'll be racking up frequent flyer miles.” Canady's tone softens, just a little. Still a rich rumble and he's telling Ben almost everything he wants to hear. “Bring her if you want.”

And there it is: the last piece. Ben tries not to look too interested. It's a lateral move, technically, but it feels like a promotion. And he knows Rey won't be waiting in the hotel room all day—he'll have to find her wandering in museums or sitting at busy cafés as people swarm past, ready to jump into the fray. And it will always feel like finding her rustling out of a fir tree, swearing loudly as she holds the thin strip of red flagging tape.

Ben thinks of the way her eyes lit up when the city first came into view. How she stands at the window in their living room and ignores the TV in favor of the distant torrent of traffic. How she talks longingly about places she's never been like they're not real. How every time she tastes something new, she dances a little and doesn't notice she does it. If there was a rut, it's so far in his rearview mirror that it's a smudge. There's only her, a wide open future, and a magic that lasts.

He meets her gaze over the rim of her champagne glass, mid-sip as Mitaka enthuses to her about deliverables and market expansion. She grins.

Ben smiles back before he answers.

“Travel's good.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> @quamquam20 | 18+


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